"periled" poems
Black shoelace, tied in knots
basks my face with paltry plots
stole my heart like summer's sin
heat is threatened by cool wind
Rear view mirror, burned by glow
reflects a frozen, fragile soul
they appear, my warm woes
white lies, turn from ash to coal
Crave smoke rings, periled fade
round' my solo fireplace
truths can't find their crumbs to trace
her sparrow, sings a love charade
All my years, i'm alive
caches in my brain's hard drive
my White lies, wear a Black shoelace
they delve deep, digest disgrace..
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
near gardens tall and winding,
whilst i savoured aphotic tea.
appeared that harrowing boy,
stygian herald bringing destiny.
inside, aside! i cried, i cried,
but none there heard my call.
my path was laid out, though four-fold
it was, before i fell the fall
then awakened from my forty-winks,
to a realm so alien and queer.
and O! the p-pain of my forearm,
known only by my good man Lear.
understand, under i stood!
beneath the sky of a shadow land.
brobdingnag could not compare,
nor calormen in the sand.
time and a time and a time again,
i periled through this epic place.
met mighty men and kings of old,
and stuck leviathan in 'er face!
o weary soul, tired tired tis true.
yet to the end did i hold fast.
til i'd learn't that humble shall be first,
and the first shall inded be last.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Porcelain Spider Under the Cellar Door
She sees a person as spool of yarn,
Taking your lifeline and threading it through her own needle,
Round and round you spin as she turns you into something to adorn,
Such an excellent seamstress the mindful spider is,
Sowing painted backless dresses to give the illusion of a spine,
Missing fragmented fractions of her web, she’s blind,
Stark, stacked illusions of what lies beyond a cellar door,
In the inner shadows of the light,
She fears no height, though bore in darkness,
Leg and fang she fought,
Fighting for frail frivolity of position and pose,
******* parts of souls in her aesthetic but potent web,
Missing lines, lanes, but layered intricately allowing illusion of a periled princess,
On her painted round **** a red hourglass turns to eyes,
Dancing with half dead perspective “insects” assigning value,
Whispering lies,
Clinging to, now, a somewhat familiar light,
Never letting her eyes adjust she refuses to rise,
Periled perfection is her guise,
Hiding in the cracks of the steps and floor,
Content under the rusty bolted hinges of a cellar door,
She never has enough, even at the edge,
The rough taciturn of her mind is never set,
Keeping half dead insects, so long in her web,
Sometimes they expire,
Other times they break and breach her bountiful cacoon,
Falling into the abyss laying underneath that cellar door,
Some recover,
Some feel new found darkness never felt before,
She slides and falls frailly when situations slip from sight,
Using partially passed insects to patch her ornamental paint and aesthetic might,
Having brushed layers of color with their guts,
Shriveled, they fall away from her web,
Her web a half living, half dead farm
And she wails at their loss,
While spinning,
Another web..
She see a person as a spool of yarn...
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
Those ashes that makes wall ***** white painted
A candle which periled who borrow
that light of the night of mangier
When yesterday incinerates a tomorrow
Numb and I can't fight the fire with fire
A hundred times hotter than the sun
It ravages my skull, my soul's sins
Skin turns like a Blackened yero
which extends to all layers of the skin
O St. John may be it's not time for your festival
This Smokey place smells burnt funeral
houses that unfitted to gift for each
it made the eyes burn and watery
Isn't it about life or pressure cooker
for a new morn and a head with torn
Which full tank of misery and forlorn.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Seven billion hearts
float amidst
crimson tides of
revolving tendrils.
Obscure in their
nature, forlorn
in their plight,
a path coalesces
from their pleasure
and pain.
On the wings
of angels,
do they fly?
Torn from their
natal host
in a vacancy
of eternal slumber,
do they reside?
Their leaking orifices
exude the lost prophecies
their primal heir
toiled for.
The timelessness of decay
in a vast plane of
logic and enigmatic
illusions.
With grandeur abreast,
wiped from the millennia
of ancient tales,
do they remain?
A mountain of reason
overlooking a murk laden
lake with prospects
aplenty conceals
the hidden wisdom of
their inner youth.
A barren pursuit
of friend
and foe.
Or inside their fever wrapped
marrows, do they fall?
Further from emancipation
to the gallows of
thought and ill-fated
treasons, do they fade?
An infallible musing
of periled destiny,
ripe with the
wounds of the
forgotten dust.
Their revelations a
twisted grove
of fate
and misfortune.
Seven billion hearts
float amidst
crimson tides of
revolving tendrils.
Once symbols of
idiosyncrasy now
footprints on a
black canvas, a single star
in a universe of eternity.
Simple in their movements
yet aloof
in their time.
A perpetual reminder
of the wondrous
before
and after.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
Those coursing within my own design,
Never fearing when I mention the dimension,
Blood coursing throughout my mind,
Eating to survive on the little provisions.
Enter into the fray,
Holding near my heart as we herald,
Those who provide the weak through prayer,
I seen the foes who've periled.
My true mind not for those who seek guidance,
Nor is it for those who need love,
For it is full of dark subsidence,
Reaching as I put on this glove,
Hating all within me,
Slain by those under my decree,
Blood dripping down my spine,
Blade now dull never again to be divine.
All I see is red,
As I have been awakened,
Darkness sleeps with me in my own bed,
Drowning in my head in the end.
The monster that lies deep,
Demons talking as I sleep,
Doomed I shall be,
Blackened my heart is you see,
For all who have tried to save me,
Save me from the monsters,
From the demons,
From myself,
For all this time you been trapped,
Just as I am locked deep down,
Holding on struggling not to be strapped,
But now all I do is frown.
Because now is too late for me,
I have lost that which I held dear to me,
For now I see,
This whole time my mind,
Is nothing but madness.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC